Hear Me

I don't know why I bother. I really don't. I don't know why I try to be happy, why I still attempt to dwell in that elusive world of existence. It's not gonna happen. I'm as worthless as always, as bitchy as ever. A waste of space, if ever I took up any.

Maybe if they knew, they'd be sorry.... But, no. I can't even TRY to fool myself with that old ploy. They don't know, they don't care, and they don't even realize. I am bloodstained, and they can't (won't) see it.

I hate how they take things that are pure for me and corrupt them with their derision. Like my dancing, my words, my walk. I can't find sanctuary anymore. Even my hope has been tainted. (Where is that scarce entity these days, anyways?)

There's blood on me, on this notebook. Don't ask me if it's real, 'cause I don't know. Hell, I don't even know if I'm real. How am I supposed to answer for a bit of red-brown stain?

I want to cry, but I can't. I'm so scared that things are going to go back to the way they used to be. I'm so scared, so angry, so bitter. I FOUND sanctuary, I FOUND hope, I FOUND safety. But what am I kidding? Certainly not actual circumstances. If I really had those things for even a moment, I definitely do not have them now. (Please, please, don't let things go back to the way they used to be!)

I get told the same damn things over and over, like it's something new for me to learn. "Ignore them." "Rise above it." "Don't sink to their level." Well, guess what? I been there, I done that, and it DOESN'T WORK. So there. Will you shut up with your platitudes off the mountain now? (They only have value when dispensed from the valley.)

This is a cry for help that no one will hear. (To hear would be an inconvenience, because then they might be obligated to DO something.) I'm running out of hope, I can't smile when I dance, and I am alone. There are cuts on my hands from where I've hit the glass too many times and bruises on my knees from where I've fallen. I am scarred and bloody, and I don't remember when all that grime accumulated. I won't lie and say that I'm not angry, but don't try to oversimplify the situation to that one word. It's more than that. I keep trying and trying and failing and failing and I'm fairly frustrated because NOTHING'S WORKING. I can't separate myself from how I feel and I'm well aware that that's a bad thing.

So, this is it. This is my last call out, my last plea, and I know all too well that no one shall hear me.

Bored to Insanity

Oh, freedom of thought, preserve me! Let me wander from this pen of a concept, marking me up with good intentioned beating! Stop! You're bruising me with your attentions to my attentions to the subject.

Let me see.... Ah, yes. Here's a fairy, flittering about in my brain. The first thing I see are her wings. They're twin jewels, gold and red and green and black, severe knifes protruding gauzily from her bare back. She's a whirl of colors, a blur of gemmery. With her exotic, burnished skin and cat-green eyes, the illusion is compounded. And then she parts her sanded-peach lips in a poisonous bloom of a smile. This fae creature is more dangerous than her miniature size would lead one to believe.

You're STILL talking? What the hell FOR? You're only rattling on about things that don't matter, the noise emitted from your mouth even more irritating when contrasted with the potential of other things you might have to say. (Like *SILENCE*) Your words are crates of glass in the back of a pickup truck driving on a gravel road. (Yeah, slightly toward the annoying side.)

Hm... let's try this. A girl steps from a white Cadillac, swinging her denim-blue toenails encased in four inch espadrilles elegantly off the side of the brown leather seats. The black grosgrain straps twine up her golden-brown calves. She ducks out of the car, snapping down her shades with her perfectly manicured fingers before anyone can glimpse her eyes. She's hiding from the world, and doing a perfectly acceptable job of it.

And you're STILL yammering on. Oh, freedom of thought, preserve me!

Winter's Return

Why is it so cold NOW? It was so warm and sunny, spring having returned in all its glory. I spent the entire weekend stretched out in the luxury of the sunshine. Then I woke up, prepared for pleasant spring heat only to shiver in winter's evil return.

Why is it so cold NOW?

Superhero

He wants to be needed. No, he NEEDS the sensation of being relied on, of being integral to some existence. (Don't we all?) I know what this means, even if neither you nor he have figured it out. You're too strong for him. You stand too tall without his support. You'll never view him as the superman that his nature demands he be. The clock ticks on and soon he shall be gone. (I knew that this would pass.)

The Inkstain

Nondescript, like a story gone wrong. An ink stain on an otherwise blank page. There's no telling what that blot does or does not conceal. Or, perhaps that blot is the story itself - just spewed out on the paper, too many words at once. That's me then, my form in a nonform, a contradiction of symphonic beauty ugly for its all-at-once nature. Maybe it's better than I am a stain, though. There's a lot of ink there. If it was all written out pretty, no one would bother to read the book. Not that it matters - no one reads it anyways. So am I an inkstain - so are we all.

A Good Question

I am so close to giving up, to ceasing trying. After all, I have seen no evidence of progress, only the slow traces of what I hoped would never be again. (Traces is probably understating it, but I have to believe that SOME things are better.)

So why am I still struggling?

That is a good question. And I do not know the answer. (Who does?) I only know that I remember the intoxicating calm adrenaline rush of reward with a sobbed longing, and that I regret every time I ever flinched and looked away. I also know that every day brings more regret when it contains the possibility of finally finding that rush I crave.

So why am I still struggling?

It is still a good question. And I still do not know the answer.

Escape

Help me escape. I don't want to be me anymore. Since that's not a possibility, I want to be reminded that 'me' is not such an awful person. You could do that for me, and I could do the same for you. Let's do it! Let's hold open the exit doors and sweep through them - forget all the things, both good and bad, we'll leave behind.

No? Oh, okay. I guess I got ahead of myself. (Yet again.) After all, you barely know me and I hardly know you. From what you've seen, 'me' really is an awful person. Besides, you're content in your life and have no need of that exit door. You probably don't see a reason why the lot of them should not be filled through with cement. I don't know why I thought you'd help me escape. (What was I thinking?)

Regrets

From now on, I am a force of nature, glorious in my wrath! How dare you! I was polite, I was pleasant, and yet you crossed me. No, not just crossed me. You entangled and strangled me with your ropes of duplicity! (We shall not discuss what I was doing that I was standing still long enough for you to tie me so securely.) No more! The fact that I often hide my fangs does not mean that I do not have them.

I am neither blind nor stupid. (Though I must admit, the prescription in my lenses is pretty strong.) Quiet, perhaps, but that is mere artifice on my part. In truth, I'd rather watch the back and forth of other's interactions rather than engage in my own. But, oh.... Let's see how you handle when I not only use my voice, but scream with it. (I wasn't the lead in all those school plays for nothing.)

I did try to be nice, you know. I smiled, laughed, played pretty. I already have so many enemies, regrets that I cannot change. Despite all appearances, I like people and rather prefer it when the feeling is reciprocated. But after all of this sordid affair, I am forcibly reminded that the only way to shield myself from harm is to rack up those regrets.

I am sorry that we couldn't be friends.

Consequences

Here I thought I'd won something, gained a little ground. But, no.... Not only am I not moving ahead, I've fallen behind. I lost a decent reputation and that scrap of scarce comfort along with it.

How much of an idiot can I be? Once was a risk and dented my reputation severely, but the second time just made me crumble. I know better! But I wanted the attention, the admiration, that I thought it would bring. HA! I guess I got what I wanted. And like a wish granted by a genie in a bottle, I got it in the most awful way. I knew that's what would happen, too. But I suppose desire blinds you, makes the world an opaque blur when mixed with desperation. (THERE's two liquors that'll put you on the bathroom floor.)

So, I'll just have to deal with the consequences of my wish, my actions. God, I was so stupid.... This is gonna hurt me. (Pass me more to drink.)

Vice Versa

Have I not been pleasant? Have I not played pretty, managed not to saw their heads off with my fingernails? I thought that I'd kept a civil tongue in my mouth, a soothing smile on my face. Revise that: I KNOW I did.

And yet they still hurt me. The kick me like a cur despite the fact that I'm a bitch. They pull the rug from beneath my feet though I'm standing on hardwood floor. Well, enough is enough! I'm sick of this whole bitterscratch affair!

You're going to leave me alone, let me be. You'll keep your fabrications inside your head and your nose securely out of my business. (Unless you want it chopped off.) Since you're a bitch to me when I'm nothing but nice to you, maybe my assuming the role of bitch will make our roles reverse.